ISABELLA  AND 
THE   EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES   BY 

JOHN    KEATS 

ILLUSTRATED   BY  R.  ANNING   BELL 


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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


IN  MEMORY  OF 

Professor  Aram  Torossian 
1884-1941 


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ISABELLA  AND  THE 
EVE  OF  ST.AGNES  BY 

JOHN   KEATS 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY  R.  ANNING  BELL  »» 


ISABELLA -AND 
THE-E  VE  •OF-S'^AGNES 


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BY 


JOHN  KEATS 


X 


ISABELLA 
OR  THE  POT 
OFBASIL 


MMMd 


y> 


Fair  Isabel,  poor  simple  Isabel ! 
Lorenzo,  a  young  palmer  in  Love's  eye  ! 
They  could  not  in  the  self-same  mansion  dwell 
Without  some  stir  of  heart,  some  malady ; 

5 


They  could  not  sit  at  meals  but  feel  how  well 
It  soothed  each  to  be  the  other  by ; 
They  could  not,  sure,  beneath  the  same  roof  sleep 
But  to  each  other  dream,  and  nightly  weep. 


II 

With  every  morn  their  love  grew  tenderer. 
With  every  eve  deeper  and  tenderer  still ; 
He  might  not  in  house,  field,  or  garden  stir, 
But  her  full  shape  would  all  his  seeing  fill ; 
And  his  continual  voice  was  pleasanter 
To  her,  than  noise  of  trees  or  hidden  rill ; 
Her  lute-string  gave  an  echo  of  his  name. 
She  spoilt  her  half-done  broidery  with  the  same. 


Ill 

He  knew  whose  gentle  hand  was  at  the  latch, 
Before  the  door  had  given  her  to  his  eyes  ; 
And  from  her  chamber-window  he  would  catch 
Her  beauty  farther  than  the  falcon  spies ; 
And  constant  as  her  vespers  would  he  watch. 
Because  her  face  was  turn'd  to  the  same  skies ; 
And  with  sick  longing  all  the  night  outwear. 
To  hear  her  morning-step  upon  the  stair. 

6 


IV 

A  whole  long  month  of  May  in  this  sad  plight 
Made  their  cheeks  paler  by  the  break  of  June  : 
*♦  To-morrow  will  I  bow  to  my  delight, 
To-morrow  will  I  ask  my  lady's  boon." — 
**  O  may  I  never  see  another  night, 
Lorenzo,  if  thy  lips  breathe  not  love's  tune."— 
So  spake  they  to  their  pillows  ;  but,  alas, 
Moneyless  days  and  days  did  he  let  pass ; 


V 
Until  sweet  Isabella's  untouch'd  cheek 
Fell  sick  within  the  rose's  just  domain, 
Fell  thin  as  a  young  mother's,  who  doth  seek 
By  every  lull  to  cool  her  infant's  pain  : 
*'  How  ill  she  is,"  said  he,  "  I  may  not  speak, 
And  yet  I  will,  and  tell  my  love  all  plain  : 
If  looks  speak  love-laws,  I  will  drink  her  tears 
And  at  the  least  'twill  startle  all  her  cares." 


VI 

So  said  he  one  fair  morning,  and  all  day 
His  heart  beat  awfully  against  his  side ; 
And  to  his  heart  he  inwardly  did  pray 
For  power  to  speak  ;  but  still  the  ruddy  tide 

7 


Stifled  his  voice,  and  pulsed  resolve  away — 
Fever'd  his  high  conceit  of  such  a  bride, 
Yet  brought  him  to  the  meekness  of  a  child  : 
Alas  !  when  passion  is  both  meek  and  wild  ! 


VII 
So  once  more  he  had  waked  and  anguished 
A  dreary  night  of  love  and  misery. 
If  Isabel's  quick  eye  had  not  been  wed 
To  every  symbol  on  his  forehead  high  ; 
She  saw  it  waxing  very  pale  and  dead, 
And  straight  all  flush'd  ;  so,  lisped  tenderly, 
*'  Lorenzo  !  " — here  she  ceased  her  timid  quest. 
But  in  her  tone  and  look  he  read  the  rest. 


VIII 
*'  O  Isabella,  I  can  half  perceive 
That  I  may  speak  my  grief  into  thine  ear  ; 
If  thou  didst  ever  any  thing  believe. 
Believe  how  I  love  thee,  believe  how  near 
My  soul  is  to  its  doom  :  I  would  not  grieve 
Thy  hand  by  unwelcome  pressing,  would  not  fear 
Thine  eyes  by  gazing ;  but  I  cannot  live 
Another  night,  and  not  my  passion  shrive. 

8 


IX 
*'  Love  !  thou  art  leading  me  from  wintry  cold, 
Lady !  thou  leadest  me  to  summer  clime, 
And  I  must  taste  the  blossoms  that  unfold 
In  its  ripe  warmth  this  gracious  morning  time." 
So  said,  his  erewhile  timid  lips  grew  bold, 
And  poesied  with  hers  in  dewy  rhyme  : 
Great  bliss  was  with  them,  and  great  happiness 
Grew,  like  a  lusty  flower  in  June's  caress. 


X 

Parting  they  seem'd  to  tread  upon  the  air, 
Twin  roses  by  the  zephyr  blown  apart 
Only  to  meet  again  more  close,  and  share 
The  inward  fragrance  of  each  other's  heart. 
She,  to  her  chamber  gone,  a  ditty  fair 
Sang,  of  delicious  love  and  honey'd  dart ; 
He  with  light  steps  went  up  a  western  hill. 
And  bade  the  sun  farewell,  and  joy'd  his  fill. 


XI 
All  close  they  met  again,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant  veil. 
All  close  they  met,  all  eves,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant  veil, 

9 


Close  in  a  bower  of  hyacinth  and  musk, 
Unknown  of  any,  free  from  whispering  tale. 
Ah  !  better  had  it  been  for  ever  so, 
Than  idle  ears  should  pleasure  in  their  woe. 


XII 
Were  they  unhappy  then  ? — It  cannot  be — 
Too  many  tears  for  lovers  have  been  shed, 
Too  many  sighs  give  we  to  them  in  fee. 
Too  much  of  pity  after  they  are  dead. 
Too  many  doleful  stories  do  we  see 
Whose  matter  in  bright  gold  were  best  to  read; 
Except  in  such  a  page  where  Theseus'  spouse 
Over  the  pathless  waves  towards  him  bows. 


XIII 
But,  for  the  general  award  of  love, 
The  little  sweet  doth  kill  much  bitterness ; 
Though  Dido  silent  is  in  under-grove, 
And  Isabella's  was  a  great  distress. 
Though  young  Lorenzo  in  warm  Indian  clove 
Was  not  enbalm'd,  this  truth  is  not  the  less — 
Even  bees,  the  little  almsmen  of  spring-bowers. 
Know  there  is  richest  juice  in  poison-flowers. 

10 


XIV 
With  her  two  brothers  this  fair  lady  dwelt, 
Enriched  from  ancestral  merchandize, 
And  for  them  many  a  weary  hand  did  swelt 
In  torched  mines  and  noisy  fa<ftories. 
And  many  once  proud-quiver'd  loins  did  melt 
In  blood  from  stinging  whip  ; — with  hollow  eyes 
Many  all  day  in  dazzling  river  stood, 
To  take  the  rich-ored  driftings  of  the  flood. 


XV 
For  them  the  Ceylon  diver  held  his  breath, 
And  went  all  naked  to  the  hungry  shark ; 
For  them  his  ears  gush'd  blood  ;  for  them  in  death 
The  seal  on  the  cold  ice  with  piteous  bark 
Lay  full  of  darts  ;  for  them  alone  did  seethe 
A  thousand  men  in  troubles  wide  and  dark  : 
Half-ignorant,  they  turn'd  an  easy  wheel. 
That  set  sharp  racks  at  work,  to  pinch  and  peel. 


XVI 
Why  were  they  proud  ?  Because  their  marble  founts 
Gush'd  with  more  pride  than  do  a  wretch's  tears  ? — 
Why  were  they  proud  ?  Because  fair  orange-mounts 
Were  of  more  soft  ascent  than  lazar  stairs  ? — 

II 


Why  were  they  proud?  Because  red-lined  accounts 
Were  richer  than  the  songs  of  Grecian  years  ? — 
Why  were  they  proud  ?  again  we  ask  aloud, 
Why  in  the  name  of  Glory  were  they  proud  ? 


XVII 
Yet  were  these  Florentines  as  self-retired 
In  hungry  pride  and  gainful  cowardice, 
As  two  close  Hebrews  in  that  land  inspired. 
Paled  in  and  vineyarded  from  beggar-spies ; 
The  hawks  of  ship-mast  forests — the  untired 
And  pannier'd  mules  for  ducats  and  old  lies — 
Quick  cat's-paws  on  the  generous  stray-away,- 
Great  wits  in  Spanish,  Tuscan,  and  Malay. 


XVIII 

How  was  it  these  same  ledger-men  could  spy 

Fair  Isabella  in  her  downy  nest  ? 

How  could  they  find  out  in  Lorenzo's  eye 

A  straying  from  his  toil  ?    Hot  Egypt's  pest 

Into  their  vision  covetous  and  sly ! 

How^  could  these  money-bags  see  east  and  west?- 

Yet  so  they  did — and  every  dealer  fair 

Must  see  behind,  as  doth  the  hunted  hare. 

12 


XIX 

O  eloquent  and  famed  Boccaccio ! 

Of  thee  we  now  should  ask  forgiving  boon, 

And  of  thy  spicy  myrtles  as  they  blow, 

And  of  thy  roses  amorous  of  the  moon. 

And  of  thy  lilies,  that  do  paler  grow 

Now  they  can  no  more  hear  thy  ghittern's  tune, 

For  venturing  syllables  that  ill  beseem 

The  quiet  glooms  of  such  a  piteous  theme. 


XX 

Grant  thou  a  pardon  here,  and  then  the  tale 
Shall  move  on  soberly,  as  it  is  meet ; 

13 


There  is  no  other  crime,  no  mad  assail 

To  make  old  prose  in  modern  rhyme  more  sweet 

But  it  is  done — succeed  the  verse  or  fail — 

To  honour  thee,  and  thy  gone  spirit  greet ; 

To  stead  thee  as  a  verse  in  English  tongue, 

An  echo  of  thee  in  the  north-wind  sung. 

XXI 

These  brethren  having  found  by  many  signs 
What  love  Lorenzo  for  their  sister  had, 
And  how  she  loved  him  too,  each  unconfines 
His  bitter  thoughts  to  other,  w^ell  nigh  mad 
That  he,  the  servant  of  their  trade  designs, 
Should  in  their  sister's  love  be  blithe  and  glad 
When  'twas  their  plan  to  coax  her  by  degrees 
To  some  high  noble  and  his  olive-trees. 

XXII 

And  many  a  jealous  conference  had  they, 
And  many  times  they  bit  their  lips  alone, 
Before  they  fix'd  upon  a  surest  way 
To  make  the  youngster  for  his  crime  atone ; 
And  at  the  last,  these  men  of  cruel  clay 
Cut  Mercy  with  a  sharp  knife  to  the  bone ; 
For  they  resolved  in  some  forest  dim 
To  kill  Lorenzo,  and  there  bury  him. 

14 


LORENZO   AND   ISABELLA. 


XXIII 

So  on  a  pleasant  morning,  as  he  leant 
Into  the  sun-rise,  o'er  the  balustrade 
Of  the  garden -terrace,  towards  him  they  bent 
Their  footing  through  the  dews  ;  and  to  him  said, 
*'  You  seem  there  in  the  quiet  of  content, 
Lorenzo,  and  we  are  most  loth  to  invade 
Calm  speculation  ;  but  if  you  are  wise. 
Bestride  your  steed  while  cold  is  in  the  skies. 


XXIV 

**  To-day  w^e  purpose,  ay,  this  hour  we  mount 

To  spur  three  leagues  towards  the  Apennine  ; 

Come  down,  we  pray  thee,  ere  the  hot  sun  count 

His  dewy  rosary  on  the  eglantine." 

Lorenzo,  courteously  as  he  was  wont, 

Bow'd  a  fair  greeting  to  these  serpents'  whine ; 

And  went  in  haste,  to  get  in  readiness. 

With  belt,  and  spur,  and  bracing  huntsman's  dress. 


XXV 

And  as  he  to  the  court-yard  pass'd  along. 
Each  third  step  did  he  pause,  and  listen'd  oft 
If  he  could  hear  his  lady's  matin-song. 
Or  the  light  whisper  of  her  footstep  soft ; 

17 


And  as  he  thus  over  his  passion  hung, 
He  heard  a  laugh  full  musical  aloft ; 
When,  looking  up,  he  saw  her  features  bright 
Smile  through  an  in-door  lattice,  all  delight. 


XXVI 

*'  Love,  Isabel !  "  said  he,  "  I  was  in  pain 
Lest  I  should  miss  to  bid  thee  a  good  morrow: 
Ah  !  what  if  I  should  lose  thee,  when  so  fain 
I  am  to  stifle  all  the  heavy  sorrow 
Of  a  poor  three  hours'  absence  ?  but  we'll  gain 
Out  of  the  amorous  dark  what  day  doth  borrow. 
Goodbye!  I'llsoonbeback."— "Good  bye!"  said  she; 
And  as  he  went  she  chanted  merrily. 


XXVII 

So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murder'd  man 
Rode  past  fair  Florence,  to  where  Arno's  stream 
Gurgles  through  straiten'd  banks,  and  still  doth  fan 
Itself  with  dancing  bulrush,  and  the  bream 
Keeps  head  against  the  freshets.     Sick  and  wan 
The  brothers'  faces  in  the  ford  did  seem, 
Lorenzo's  flush  with  love. — They  pass'd  the  water 
Into  a  forest  quiet  for  the  slaughter. 

i8 


EACH  THIRD  STEP  DID  HE  PAUSE,  AND  LISTEN'D  OFT 
IF  HE  COULD  HEAR  HIS  LADY'S  MATIN-SONG. 


XXVIII 
There  was  Lorenzo  slain  and  buried  in, 
There  in  that  forest  did  his  great  love  cease ; 
Ah  !  when  a  soul  doth  thus  its  freedom  win, 
It  aches  in  loneliness — is  ill  at  peace 
As  the  break-covert  blood-hounds  of  such  sin  : 
They  dipp'd  their  swords  in  the  water,  and  did  tease 
Their  horses  homeward,  with  convulsed  spur, 
Each  richer  by  his  being  a  murderer. 


XXIX 

They  told  their  sister  how,  with  sudden  speed, 
Lorenzo  had  ta'en  ship  for  foreign  lands. 
Because  of  some  great  urgency  and  need 
In  their  affairs,  requiring  trusty  hands. 
Poor  Girl  !  put  on  thy  stifling  widow's  weed. 
And  'scape  at  once  from  Hope's  accursed  bands; 
To-day  thou  wilt  not  see  him,  nor  to-morrow, 
And  the  next  day  will  be  a  day  of  sorrow. 


XXX 

She  weeps  alone  for  pleasures  not  to  be  ; 
Sorely  she  wept  until  the  night  came  on. 
And  then,  instead  of  love,  O  misery  ! 
She  brooded  o'er  the  luxury  alone : 

21 


< 


His  image  in  the  dusk  she  seem'd  to  see, 

And  to  the  silence  made  a  gentle  moan, 

Spreading  her  perfecTt  arms  upon  the  air. 

And  on  her  couch  low  murmuring,  "Where?  O  where?' 


XXXI 

But  Selfishness,  Love's  cousin,  held  not  long 
Its  fiery  vigil  in  her  single  breast; 
She  fretted  for  the  golden  hour,  and  hung 
Upon  the  time  with  feverish  unrest — 
Not  long — for  soon  into  her  heart  a  throng 
Of  higher  occupants,  a  richer  zest. 
Came  tragic  ;  passion  not  to  be  subdued, 
And  sorrow  for  her  love  in  travels  rude. 


XXXII 

In  the  mid  days  of  autumn,  on  their  eves 
The  breath  of  Winter  comes  from  far  away. 
And  the  sick  west  continually  bereaves 
Of  some  gold  tinge,  and  plays  a  roundelay 
Of  death  among  the  bushes  and  the  leaves, 
To  make  all  bare  before  he  dares  to  stray 
From  his  north  cavern.     So  sweet  Isabel 
By  gradual  decay  from  beauty  fell, 

22 


THEY  TOLD  THEIR  SISTER  HOW,  WITH  SUDDEN  SPEED, 
LORENZO  HAD  TA'EN  SHIP  FOR  FOREIGN  LANDS. 


XXXIII 

Because  Lorenzo  came  not.     Oftentimes 
She  ask'd  her  brothers,  with  an  eye  all  pale, 
Striving  to  be  itself,  what  dungeon  climes 
Could  keep  him  off  so  long  ?    They  spake  a  tale 
Time  after  time,  to  quiet  her.     Their  crimes 
Came  on  them,  like  a  smoke  from  Hinnom's  vale 
And  every  night  in  dreams  they  groan'd  aloud, 
To  see  their  sister  in  her  snowy  shroud. 


XXXIV 

And  she  had  died  in  drowsy  ignorance,. 
But  for  a  thing  more  deadly  dark  than  all  ; 
It  came  like  a  fierce  potion,  drunk  by  chance, 
Which  saves  a  sick  man  from  the  feather'd  pall 
For  some  few  gasping  moments  ;  like  a  lance. 
Waking  an  Indian  from  his  cloudy  hall 
With  cruel  pierce,  and  bringing  him  again 
Sense  of  the  gnawing  fire  at  heart  and  brain. 


XXXV 

It  was  a  vision. — In  the  drowsy  gloom, 
The  dull  of  midnight,  at  her  couch's  foot 
Lorenzo  stood,  and  wept :  the  forest  tomb 
Had  marr'd  his  glossy  hair  which  once  could  shoot 

25 


Lustre  into  the  sun,  and  put  cold  doom 
Upon  his  lips,  and  taken  the  soft  lute 
From  his  lorn  voice,  and  past  his  loamed  ears 
Had  made  a  miry  channel  for  his  tears. 


XXXVI 
Strange  sound  it  was,  when  the  pale  shadow  spake; 
For  there  was  striving,  in  its  piteous  tongue, 
To  speak  as  when  on  earth  it  was  awake, 
And  Isabella  on  its  music  hung : 
Languor  there  was  in  it,  and  tremulous  shake, 
As  in  a  palsied  Druid's  harp  unstrung ; 
And  through  it  moan'd  a  ghostly  under-song, 
Like  hoarse  night-gusts  sepulchral  briars  among. 


XXXVII 

Its  eyes,  though  wild,  were  still  all  dewy  bright 
With  love,  and  kept  all  phantom  fear  aloof 
From  the  poor  girl  by  magic  of  their  light, 
The  while  it  did  unthread  the  horrid  woof 
Of  the  late  darken'd  time, — the  murderous  spite 
Of  pride  and  avarice, — the  dark  pine  roof 
In  the  forest, — and  the  sodden  turfed  dell. 
Where,  without  any  word,  from  stabs  he  fell. 

26 


XXXVIII 

Saying  moreover,  "  Isabel,  my  sweet ! 
Red  whortle-berries  droop  above  my  head, 
And  a  large  flint-stone  weighs  upon  my  feet ; 
Around  me  beeches  and  high  chestnuts  shed 
Their  leaves  and  prickly  nuts ;  a  sheep-fold  bleat 
Comes  from  beyond  the  river  to  my  bed  : 
Go,  shed  one  tear  upon  my  heather-bloom, 
And  it  shall  comfort  me  within  the  tomb. 


XXXIX 

"  I  am  a  shadow  now,  alas  !  alas  ! 

Upon  the  skirts  of  human-nature  dwelling 

Alone  :  I  chant  alone  the  holy  mass. 

While  little  sounds  of  life  are  round  me  knelling, 

And  glossy  bees  at  noon  do  fieldward  pass. 

And  many  a  chapel  bell  the  hour  is  telling. 

Paining  me  through :  those  sounds  grow  strange  to  me, 

And  thou  art  distant  in  Humanity. 


XL 

*'  I  know  what  was,  I  feel  full  well  what  is, 
And  I  should  rage,  if  spirits  could  go  mad  ; 
Though  I  forget  the  taste  of  earthly  bliss. 
That  paleness  warms  my  grave,  as  though  I  had 

27 


A  Seraph  chosen  from  the  bright  abyss 

To  be  my  spouse  :  thy  paleness  makes  me  glad ; 

Thy  beauty  grows  upon  me,  and  I  feel 

A  greater  love  through  all  my  essence  steal." 


XLI 

The  Spirit  mourn'd  "  Adieu  !  " — dissolved,  and  left 

The  atom  darkness  in  a  slow  turmoil ; 

As  when  of  healthful  midnight  sleep  bereft, 

Thinking  on  rugged  hours  and  fruitless  toil. 

We  put  our  eyes  into  a  pillowy  cleft. 

And  see  the  spangly  gloom  froth  up  and  boil : 

It  made  sad  Isabella's  eyelids  ache, 

And  in  the  dawn  she  started  up  awake ; 


XLII 
*'  Ha  !  ha !  "  said  she,  "  I  knew  not  this  hard  life, 
I  thought  the  worst  was  simple  misery ; 
I  thought  some  Fate  with  pleasure  or  with  strife 
Portion'd  us — happy  days,  or  else  to  die ; 
But  there  is  crime — a  brother's  bloody  knife  ! 
Sweet  Spirit,  thou  hast  school'd  my  infancy : 
I'll  visit  thee  for  this,  and  kiss  thine  eyes. 
And  greet  thee  morn  and  even  in  the  skies." 

28 


XLIII 

When  the  full  morning  came,  she  had  devised 
How  she  might  secret  to  the  forest  hie  ; 
How  she  might  find  the  clay,  so  dearly  prized, 
And  sing  to  it  one  latest  lullaby  ; 
How  her  short  absence  might  be  unsurmised. 
While  she  the  inmost  of  the  dream  would  try. 
Resolved,  she  took  with  her  an  aged  nurse. 
And  went  into  that  dismal  forest-hearse. 


XLIV 
See,  as  they  creep  along  the  river  side, 
How  she  doth  whisper  to  that  aged  Dame, 
And,  after  looking  round  the  champaign  wide. 
Shows  her  a  knife. — "What  feverous  hecTtic  flame 
Burns  in  thee,  child  ? — What  good  can  thee  betide, 
That  thou  shouldst  smile  again  ?  " — The  evening  came, 
And  they  had  found  Lorenzo's  earthy  bed ; 
The  flint  was  there,  the  berries  at  his  head. 


XLV 

Who  hath  not  loiter'd  in  a  green  church-yard. 
And  let  his  spirit,  like  a  demon-mole. 
Work  through  the  clayey  soil  and  gravel  hard. 
To  see  skull,  coflin'd  bones,  and  funeral  stole ; 

29 


Pitying  each  form  that  hungry  Death  hath  marr'd, 
And  filling  it  once  more  with  human  soul  ? 
Ah  !  this  is  holiday  to  what  was  felt 
When  Isabella  by  Lorenzo  knelt. 


XLVI 

She  gazed  into  the  fresh-thrown  mould,  as  though 

One  glance  did  fully  all  its  secrets  tell ; 

Clearly  she  saw,  as  other  eyes  would  know 

Pale  limbs  at  bottom  of  a  crystal  well ; 

Upon  the  murderous  spot  she  seem'd  to  grow, 

Like  to  a  native  lily  of  the  dell : 

Then  with  her  knife,  all  sudden,  she  began 

To  dig  more  fervently  than  misers  can. 


XLVII 
Soon  she  turn'd  up  a  soiled  glove,  whereon 
Her  silk  had  play'd  in  purple  phantasies. 
She  kiss'd  it  with  a  lip  more  chill  than  stone, 
And  put  it  in  her  bosom,  where  it  dries 
And  freezes  utterly  unto  the  bone 
Those  dainties  made  to  still  an  infant's  cries : 
Then  'gan  she  work  again  ;  nor  stay'd  her  care, 
But  to  throw  back  at  times  her  veiling  hair. 

30 


PALE  ISABELLA  KISS'D  IT  AND  LOW  MOAN'D. 


XLVIII 

That  old  nurse  stood  beside  her  wondering, 
Until  her  heart  felt  pity  to  the  core 
At  sight  of  such  a  dismal  labouring, 
And  so  she  kneeled,  with  her  locks  all  hoar, 
And  put  her  lean  hands  to  the  horrid  thing : 
Three  hours  they  labour' d  at  this  travail  sore ; 
At  last  they  felt  the  kernel  of  the  grave. 
And  Isabella  did  not  stamp  and  rave. 


XLIX 
Ah  !  wherefore  all  this  wormy  circumstance  ? 
Why  linger  at  the  yawning  tomb  so  long  ? 
O  for  the  gentleness  of  old  Romance, 
The  simple  plaining  of  a  minstrel's  song  ! 
Fair  reader,  at  the  old  tale  take  a  glance. 
For  here,  in  truth,  it  doth  not  "well  belong 
To  speak  : — O  turn  thee  to  the  very  tale. 
And  taste  the  music  of  that  vision  pale. 


L 

With  duller  steel  than  the  Persean  sword 
They  cut  away  no  formless  monster's  head. 
But  one,  whose  gentleness  did  well  accord 
With  death,  as  life.    The  ancient  harps  have  said, 

33 


Love  never  dies,  but  lives,  immortal  Lord : 

If  Love  impersonate  was  ever  dead, 

Pale  Isabella  kiss'd  it,  and  low  moan'd. 

'Twas  love  ;  cold, — dead  indeed,but  not  dethroned*. 


LI 

In  anxious  secrecy  they  took  it  home, 

And  then  the  prize  was  all  for  Isabel : 

She  calm'd  its  wild  hair  with  a  golden  comb, 

And  all  around  each  eye's  sepulchral  cell 

Pointed  each  fringed  lash  ;  the  smeared  loam 

With  tears,  as  chilly  as  a  dripping  well, 

She  drench'd  away : — and  still  she  comb'd,  and  kept 

Sighing  all  day — and  still  she  kiss'd,  and  wept. 


LII 

Then  in  a  silken  scarf, — sweet  with  the  dews 
Of  precious  flowers  pluck'd  in  Araby, 
And  divine  liquids  come  with  odorous  ooze 
Through  the  cold  serpent-pipe  refreshfully,— 
She  wrapp'd  it  up  ;  and  for  its  tomb  did  choose 
A  garden-pot,  wherein  she  laid  it  by. 
And  cover'd  it  with  mould,  and  o'er  it  set 
Sweet  Basil,  which  her  tears  kept  ever  wet. 

34 


LIII 

And  she  forgot  the  stars,  the  moon,  and  sun, 
And  she  forgot  the  blue  above  the  trees. 
And  she  forgot  the  dells  where  waters  run, 
And  she  forgot  the  chilly  autumn  breeze ; 
She  had  no  knowledge  when  the  day  was  done, 
And  the  new  morn  she  saw  not :  but  in  peace 
Hung  over  her  sweet  Basil  evermore. 
And  moisten'd  it  with  tears  unto  the  core. 


LIV 

And  so  she  ever  fed  it  with  thin  tears. 

Whence  thick,  and  green,  and  beautiful  it  grew, 

So  that  it  smelt  more  balmy  than  its  peers 

Of  Basil-tufts  in  Florence  ;  for  it  drew 

Nurture  besides,  and  life,  from  human  fears, 

From  the  fast  mouldering  head  there  shut  from  view 

So  that  the  jewel,  safely  casketed. 

Came  forth,  and  in  perfumed  leafits  spread. 


LV 

O  Melancholy,  linger  here  awhile  ! 
O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly ! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  from  some  sombre  isle, 
Unknown,  Lethean,  sigh  to  us — O  sigh ! 

35 


Spirits  in  grief,  lift  up  your  heads,  and  smile ; 
Lift  up  your  heads,  sweet  Spirits,  heavily, 
And  make  a  pale  light  in  your  cypress  glooms. 
Tinting  with  silver  wan  your  marble  tombs. 


LVI 
Moan  hither,  all  ye  syllables  of  woe, 
From  the  deep  throat  of  sad  Melpomene  ! 
Through  bronzed  lyre  in  tragic  order  go, 
And  touch  the  strings  into  a  mystery ; 
Sound  mournfully  upon  the  winds  and  low 
For  simple  Isabel  is  soon  to  be 
Among  the  dead  :  She  withers,  like  a  palm 
Cut  by  an  Indian  for  its  juicy  balm. 


LVII 
O  leave  the  palm  to  wither  by  itself; 
Let  not  quick  Winter  chill  its  dying  hour  ! — 
It  may  not  be — those  Baalites  of  pelf. 
Her  brethren,  noted  the  continual  shower 
From  her  dead  eyes  ;  and  many  a  curious  elf, 
Among  her  kindred,  wonder'd  that  such  dower 
Of  youth  and  beauty  should  be  thrown  aside 
By  one  mark'd  out  to  be  a  Noble's  bride. 

36 


LVIII 

And,  furthermore,  her  brethren  wonder'd  much 
Why  she  sat  drooping  by  the  Basil  green, 
And  why  it  flourish'd,  as  by  magic  touch ; 
Greatly  they  wonder'd  what  the  thing  might  mean : 
They  could  not  surely  give  belief,  that  such 
A  very  nothing  would  have  power  to  wean 
Her  from  her  own  fair  youth,  and  pleasures  gay, 
And  even  remembrance  of  her  love's  delay. 


LIX 
Therefore  they  watch'd  a  time  when  they  might  sift 
This  hidden  whim ;  and  long  they  watch'd  in  vain ; 
For  seldom  did  she  go  to  chapel-shrift, 
And  seldom  felt  she  any  hunger-pain ; 
And  when  she  left,  she  hurried  back,  as  swift 
As  bird  on  wing  to  breast  its  eggs  again  ; 
And,  patient  as  a  hen-bird,  sat  her  there 
Beside  her  Basil,  weeping  through  her  hair. 


LX 
Yet  they  contrived  to  steal  the  Basil-pot, 
And  to  examine  it  in  secret  place : 
The  thing  was  vile  with  green  and  livid  spot, 
And  yet  they  knew  it  was  Lorenzo's  face  : 

37 


The  guerdon  of  their  murder  they  had  got, 
And  so  left  Florence  in  a  moment's  space, 
Never  to  turn  again. — Away  they  went, 
With  blood  upon  their  heads,  to  banishment. 


LXI 

O  Melancholy,  turn  thine  eyes  away ; 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly  ! 

O  Echo,  Echo,  on  some  other  day. 

From  isles  Lethean,  sigh  to  us — O  sigh  ! 

Spirits  of  grief,  sing  not  your  "  Well-a-way  !  " 

For  Isabel,  sweet  Isabel,  will  die ; 

Will  die  a  death  too  lone  and  incomplete. 

Now  they  have  ta'en  away  her  Basil  sweet. 


LXII 

Piteous  she  look'd  on  dead  and  senseless  things, 
Asking  for  her  lost  Basil  amorously : 
And  with  melodious  chuckle  in  the  strings 
Of  her  lorn  voice,  she  oftentimes  would  cry 
After  the  Pilgrim  in  his  wanderings. 
To  ask  him  where  her  Basil  was  ;  and  why 
'Twas  hid  from  her:  "  For  cruel  'tis,"  said  she, 
*'  To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me." 

38 


LXIII 
And  so  she  pined,  and  so  she  died  forlorn, 
Imploring  for  her  Basil  to  the  last. 
No  heart  was  there  in  Florence  but  did  mourn 
In  pity  of  her  love,  so  overcast. 
And  a  sad  ditty  of  this  story  born 
From  mouth  to  mouth  through  all  the  country  pass'd: 
Still  is  the  burthen  sung — "  O  cruelty. 
To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me  !  " 


39 


St.  Agnes'  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was ! 

The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 

The  hare  limp'd  tremblingthrough  thefrozen  grass, 

And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 

41 


Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers,  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picflure,  w^hile  his  prayer 
he  saith. 


II 
His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man  ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side,  seem  to  freeze, 
Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
He  passeth  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 


Ill 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue 
Flatter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor ; 
But  no — already  had  his  deathbell  rung ; 

42 


The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung  : 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve  : 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night    kept  awake,  for  sinners'   sake  to 
grieve. 


IV 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide. 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide : 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests. 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise 
on  their  breasts. 


V 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry. 

With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array. 

Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 

The  brain,  new  stufPd,  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 

43 


Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away, 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  de- 
clare. 


VI 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey'd  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that   they 
desire. 


VII 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline  : 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard  :  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 

44 


AT  LENGTH  BURST  IN  THE  ARGENT  REVELRY. 


i 


Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all :  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 
And  back  retired  ;  not  cool'd  by  high  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  otherwhere  : 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the 
year. 


VIII 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short : 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand:  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throng'd  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd  with  faery  fancy;  all  amort. 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn» 


IX 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire. 
She  lingered  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors,. 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 

47  G 


Buttress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours. 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen  ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in  sooth  such 
things  have  been. 


X 

He  ventures  in  :  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart.  Love's  fev'rous  citadel : 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes, 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage :  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul. 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 


XI 

Ah,  happy  chance !  the  aged  creature  came. 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand. 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 

48 


The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland  : 
He  startled  her ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 
Saying, "Mercy,  Porphyro!  hie  thee  from  this  place; 
*'  They  are  all   here  to-night,   the  whole   blood- 
thirsty race ! 


XII 

"Get  hence!  get  hence!  there's  dwarfish  Hildebrand; 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land : 
Then  there  's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 

49 


More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs — Alas  me  !  flit ! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away." — **  Ah,  Gossip  dear, 
We're  safe  enough ;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit. 
And  tell  me  how" — "  Good  Saints!  not  here,  not  here; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy 
bier." 


XIII 

He  follow'd  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume  ; 
And  as  she  mutter'd  "  Well-a — well-a-day  !  " 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
*'  O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see. 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 


XIV 
«'  St.  Agnes  !  Ah  !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve- 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days : 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve. 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 

50 


To  venture  so  :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 

To  see  thee,  Porphyro  ! — St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 

God's  help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjuror  plays 

This  very  night :  good  angels  her  deceive  ! 

But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I've  mickle  timetogrieve." 


XV 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 

While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look. 

Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 

"Who  keepeth  closed  a  wond'rous  riddle-book, 

As  specftacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 

But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 

His  lady's  purpose  ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 

Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold, 

And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 


XVI 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 

51 


*'  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art : 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep,  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  ! — I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst 
seem." 


XVII 
**  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro  :  "  O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face  : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears  ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space. 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd  than 
wolves  and  bears." 


XVIII 

"  Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing. 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll ; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 

52 


Were  never  miss' d." — Thus  plaining,  doth  she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro ; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 


XIX 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy. 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied. 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride. 
While  legion'd  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met. 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous 
debt. 


XX 

'*  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  Dame : 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night :  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see :  no  time  to  spare, 

53 


For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 

On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 

Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience;  kneel  in  prayer 

The  while  :    Ah  !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed. 

Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 


XXI 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd  ; 
The  dame  return'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her  ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last. 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hush'd,  and  chaste; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 


XXII 

Her  falt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade. 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid. 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware  : 

54 


MADELINE,  ST.  AGNES'  CHARMED  MAID. 


H 


With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed  ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  fray'd 
and  fled. 


XXIII 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in  ; 

Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died  : 

She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 

To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide  : 

No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide  ! 

But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble. 

Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side ; 

As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 

Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die, heart-stifled,  in  her  dell. 


XXIV 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 

57 


Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd  wings ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries. 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings. 


XXV 
Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast. 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon  ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst. 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven  : — Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 


XXVI 

Anon  his  heart  revives  :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  boddice  ;  by  degrees 

58 


Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees  : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed. 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 


xxvn 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she  lay. 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day; 
Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  pain  ; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain. 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 


XXVIII 
Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress. 
And  listen'd  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 

59 


Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 
And  breath'd  himself:  then  from  the  closet  crept. 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo ! — how 
fast  she  slept. 


XXIX 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 

Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 

A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,  threw  thereon 

A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet : — 

O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 

The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion. 

The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet. 

Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone : — 

The  hall  door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 


XXX 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep. 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd  ; 

60 


With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tincft  with  cinnamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar'd  Lebanon. 


XXXI 

These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver  :  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. — 
*'  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake  ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite : 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake. 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth 
ache." 


XXXII 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  w^as  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains  : — 'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream  : 

6i 


The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam  ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies  : 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  phantasies. 


XXXIII 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 
In  Provence  call'd,  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy;'* 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody ; — 
Wherewith  disturb'd,  she  utter' d  a  soft  moan : 
He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured 
stone. 


XXXIV 
Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep  : 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep. 

62 


HE  PLAY'D  AN  ANCIENT  DITTY,  LONG  SINCE  MUTE, 
CLOSE  TO  HER  EAR  TOUCHING  THE  MELODY. 


At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh  ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  dreamingly. 


XXXV 

*'  Ah,  Porphyro  !  "  said  she,  "  but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear : 
How  changed  thou  art!  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear ! 
Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe. 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where  to 
go. 


XXXVI 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion'd  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose; 

6s 


Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odour  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet :  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes  ;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath 
set. 


XXXVII 
'Tis  dark:  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet: 
"  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline !  " 
'Tis  dark  :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
**  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !  and  woe  is  mine  ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine. — 
Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  ? 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing  ; — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned  wing." 


XXXVIII 
"  My  Madeline  !  sweet  dreamer  !  lovely  bride ! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil  dyed? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 

66 


After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famish'd  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 


XXXIX 

**  Hark!  'tis  an  elfin-storm  from  faery  land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed  : 
Arise — arise  !  the  morning  is  at  hand  ; — 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed  ; — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed  ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, — 
Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead  : 
Awake  !  arise  !  my  love,  and  fearless  be. 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for 
thee." 


XL 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found. — 

67 


In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 

A  chain-droop'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door; 

The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and  hound, 

Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar; 

And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 


XLI 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ; 
Like  phantoms,  to  the  iron  porch,  they  glide  ; 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl. 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side  : 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide, 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns  : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  : — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones  ; — 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 


XLII 

And  they  are  gone  :  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe. 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 

68 


Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  deform  ; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
or  aye  unsought  for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


THIS  EDITION  OF  KEATS'  "ISABELLA"  AND  **THE 

EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES  "  IS  PRINTED  AT  THE  CHISWICK 

PRESS,  LONDON,  AND  PUBLISHED  BY  ALFRED 

BARTLETT,  CORNHILL,  BOSTON 


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